


Ghosts of the Past

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: AU Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Brief horror, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Edith Cushing is Clever, Found Families, Ghostly Intervention, Gothic sensibilities, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Insanity, Multi, Open Marriage, Period-Typical Attitudes, Sibling Incest, abuse (referenced)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 05:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: "Thomas," Edith said, kindly but firm, "believe me, I understand feeling...reverence for one's departed." She felt a pang of loss, which she suppressed for the moment. "But I am the mistress of this house now. The sooner your sister realizes that, the better for us all."Thomas smiled sadly. "You're right, of course, my dear."Edith Cushing Sharpe is no one's fool. Young she might be, and newly orphaned, but her observational skills and her imagination were in no way impaired. Or, Edith figures shit out.





	Ghosts of the Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aaronlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaronlisa/gifts).



> Spoilers for... well, if you haven't seen the movie, what are you doing here? Canon divergence from the time Edith arrives at Allerdale Hall.

Edith drew a steadying breath as Thomas helped her climb from the carriage. The house was more--and less--than she'd been prepared to see. Much more dilapidated, but also much more grandiose. Inside, it was much less sound than she'd expected, and the cold from the gaping hole in the roof seemed to infuse the entire house.

"Lucille usually keeps a fire going in the drawing room," Thomas said to her, rubbing her shoulders vigorously over her cloak. "Why don't you go through and I'll get us some tea."

"Is your sister not at home?" Edith asked, surprised she was not there to greet them.

"She's probably in the drawing room herself, or the kitchen. Go on in. Finlay will see to your bags, and later I'll show you the house."

Edith let Thomas lead her to the drawing room doors. There was indeed a cosy fire, manufacturing a wall of heat that counteracted the chill of the foyer.

"The house is wonderful, Thomas," she said truthfully.

"It has seen better days," he replied with an air of apology, almost ashamed.

"Well, clearly it needs repair," Edith agreed, "but you could not have brought me to a more atmospheric environment." She gasped excitedly. "Ooh, Thomas, is it haunted?"

Thomas's face grew ashen, then he blushed. "Whatever gives you that idea?" he blustered. "It's the author in you, I expect. Now, sit and rest; I'll be back shortly with our tea."

"No need," they heard Lucille say behind them, coming through the open doorway. "I heard the carriage approaching and knew you would be tired and cold." She set down the tray, kissed her brother's cheek lovingly, and then opened her arms to Edith. "Dear Edith," she said, though the warmth in her voice did not extend to her stiff embrace.

"Lucille, thank you for the tea," said Edith politely. Thomas closed the door against the cold, and the three sat. Edith began to reach for the pot at the same moment as Lucille, but pulled her hand back as soon as she saw. "I'm so sorry," she said gently. "Of course, you are used to the duties of hostess."

"Yes," Lucille confirmed so icily, it was as if Thomas had not shut the door at all. Edith smiled sweetly and let Lucille have her way.

After tea, Thomas propsed to take Edith on a tour. They took the lift up to the second floor, where he showed her the enormous master suite, the bath, and several guest rooms. "The attics are on the third floor, upstairs," he said, "Lucille keeps her room up there in our old nursery; and I've made our old playroom into a little workshop. I'll show you some other time. I'm afraid if I start to show it off, I shan't stop for a while."

"You both spend a lot of time up in the attic, then?" Edith asked.

"It's easier to keep warm than the rest of the house," Lucille explained. She had been drifting along behind them, almost like a ghost herself.

"The first floor has the library, our father's private study, or what used to be his study, I should say, and the old game room," Thomas continued to smooth over Lucille's curt answer. They quickly went 'round the squared-off stairs and all around the bannistered balcony, Lucille unlocking doors with her chatelaine of keys, then locking them again as they left. "And you've seen the drawing room," Thomas said, leading them back down to the ground floor. "There's also a formal dining room--which we never use--and a morning room or salon. And the kitchens are down these stairs, back here."

"Does the lift go to the kitchens?"

"No--it goes down to the mines--the clay pits. Never ever go down there; it's dangerous," he cautioned. "In fact, you might prefer the stairs to the lift. It has a mind of its own, you see."

"Speaking of the kitchen, I'll start luncheon," Lucille commented. "Edith, dear, why don't you unpack until we're ready. Unless you'd rather get some rest?"

"Unpacking sounds fine," Edith agreed. Thomas accompanied her back upstairs to the master bedroom. "Thomas," she mused as they climbed the steps, "do you think I might put the desk from your father's study in the library? The light is so much nicer in there, but the desk is more suited. I'd like to use it as a writing room."

"I'll speak to Lucille about it," he said, though there was doubt in his face--maybe even fear. Surely, she was imagining that. "She rather likes to keep things as they were," he explained.

"Thomas," Edith said, kindly but firm, "believe me, I understand feeling...reverence for one's departed." She felt a pang of loss, which she suppressed for the moment. "But I am the mistress of this house now. The sooner your sister realizes that, the better for us all."

Thomas smiled sadly. "You're right, of course, my dear." He kissed her forehead. "You get your things settled, and we'll discuss it at luncheon." He left her alone, heading downstairs, presumably to check with the workmen outside.

After he had gone, Edith opened the curtains, trading a little additional light for a bit less warmth. As she had during the tour, she had a curious feeling of being watched, but no matter which way she turned, she could see no one. She reached into her reticule for the keys to her trunks. As she pulled out gowns and shirtwaists and daydresses, and hung them in the wardrobe, she felt her breath turn shaky. Mentioning departed loved ones only made her think of her poor father, and how much she missed him. Still, she had Thomas now, and that might not have been possible had Papa not died so untimely, so tragically. Fighting back the urge to cry, she hung yet another garment in the wardrobe….

...And drew her hand back suddenly. The inside of the closet was as cold as ice. It was colder now than it had been five minutes ago when she'd opened the doors to air it out. The frigid draft passed over her shoulders, like clammy fingers against her neck. She shivered, glancing around for the source of the wintry breath. Perhaps the window was not perfectly sealed? But no, it was latched tight, and although the leaded glass was chilled by the outside air, she felt no specific stream of wind passing through it. The sensation of being watched subsided; she picked up the frock which she had dropped in her surprise, and hung it with care in the wardrobe. It was now entirely undrafty again. Perhaps Thomas was mistaken, and the place was haunted, after all.

An hour later, Thomas appeared at her door. "Luncheon should be ready," he announced. "Shall we go down?"

Edith steeled herself for more of Lucille's diffidence, but there was no substitute for establishing one's authority early, as her father would tell her. She took his arm.

Lunch was a simple affair of soup and bread, a little compote of stewed turnips with citrus, and jam sammies for afters. Lucille's cooking, if this was a fair sample, was adequate but nothing special. Edith longed to inquire about hiring a proper housekeeper and cook, but she knew that at present, Thomas's finances were stretched to their limits. Once his invention met success, and her inheritance was conferred, they could make adjustments to the household. Then again, the moment they had any money, they would have to prioritize repairs to the house, beginning with the roof.

"Incidentally, Thomas, I went to the post office this morning, before you arrived," Lucille said over their pudding. "Your machine parts are here from Birmingham. You'll need Finlay to fetch them."

"Excellent." Thomas beamed at Edith, then took her hand. "Why, whatever's the matter, Edith?"

"I wish to say something to you both," she said, summoning her courage. "I don't want you to think I intend to laze about all day. I was accustomed to helping my father with his work but I'm no stranger to harder labor. I can help out with all the chores that must go into running a house this size--carrying coal and cleaning, and the cooking." She smiled at Lucille, she hoped in a friendly and not threatening way. "Perhaps we might take turns. That way you'd have some more leisure time, too."

"Nonsense," Thomas said quickly. "You must be free to write. Why, I'd wager your novel will be of more use to the family, I'm sure, if we can get it published."

"Do you really think it would fetch enough to restore this place?" Edith asked, blushing.

"Naturally!" he proclaimed confidently. "You're so talented. Of course it will sell."

"Your invention is what will bring us back to good fortune, Thomas," Lucille said curtly.

"Well, even so, I should contribute," Edith insisted over the disagreement. "Oh, and Lucille. I shall require my own chatelaine. Are there copies of the keys?"

Lucille's face darkened. Her eyes glittered like knives, but she sipped her tea languidly, holding Edith's gaze. Edith refused to blink. Finally, Lucille set her cup down. "No," she said simply.

"No?"

"No. Mother would not allow anyone to hold the keys except herself."

Edith hardly wished to be rude enough as to point out that "Mother" was nowhere to be found anymore. Instead, she pressed forward, choosing to take Lucille's statement as a reason there were no additional keys, rather than the flat refusal it was obviously meant to be. "Well, then, as I see it, we have two options. We can either have a set made, or...you could give them to me, now, and I shall have copies made for you for the rooms we'll both use regularly." She smiled, again, going for pleasant and innocent, rather than matching her sister-in-law's cat-scratching territorialism.

Seated between them, Thomas glanced back and forth nervously. The longer the moment of tension lasted, the more uncomfortable he became, until at last, he gave a breathless, anxious chuckle. "Perhaps, Sister, it's time to let some of the old things go. We surely don't need to keep everything under lock and key, when it's just us three?" He placed his hand over Lucille's, then took Edith's hand, connecting them as they stared from opposing sides of the table. "I propose that we compromise. We'll unlock the rooms on the first floor, such as the library and Father's study. Edith may have the keys to the rooms on the second floor, and the ground floor, as those are the rooms needed by a hostess. Lucille may keep her key to the attics, and to her drawing room, and to the pantry. For anything else, we'll have a key made if we need one."

Lucille fixed a steely glare at him, which Edith could hardly miss. But he looked at his sister so imploringly, as Edith saw it, that she thought it would be impossible to resist him. It was the same look he had favored on her when he'd asked her to accompany him to Eunice's party and making her dance in front of everyone. It made her heart beat faster. Part of her wished to whisk him upstairs straightaway and cover him with kisses. It was their room, now, and their marriage bed. She shocked herself at the forwardness of her thoughts, how inappropriate it was to wish to ravish him right here, in the kitchen over lunch at a rough-hewn, square table. But after all, they were man and wife. Not that he had claimed his rights as a husband yet. In consideration of Edith's mourning, he had booked them separate staterooms on the steamer, and the train ride, though long, had not required an overnight berth. She hoped he planned to make their first night in their home special, accounting for his delay. And if he did not, she meant to assure him that she had every intention of fulfilling her wifely duties.

But for now, she had to force herself back to the standoff between herself and the other woman in Thomas's life. To her relief, Lucille's expression softened. "Of course, Thomas," she said stiffly. "If you think it best. You're the master of this house, after all."

"Yes, he is," Edith pointed out. "But Lucille, please, there's no reason for us to quarrel. I would never discount the admirable job you have done all these years, as this house's mistress. And I would never wish to come between the affection you and your brother have for each other."

"Then do not," Lucille quipped, as sharp as her surname.

"Lucille!" Thomas admonished. "Edith has done nothing of the kind."

"No, indeed, how could she," Lucille commented dismissively. She rose, touching Thomas's cheek with a possessiveness Edith found greatly troubling. "After all, I practically raised you, remember." Her tone carried a hint of threat, but before Edith could register it or consider its meaning, Lucille conceded. "Well, since the drawing room remains my refuge, I shall take myself there. Edith, if you are serious in your offer to share responsibilities, then perhaps you'll be so kind as to clean up."

* * *

Edith did not drop the matter of the keys, insisting before the end of the day that she receive the ones Thomas had proposed be hers to command. There was a price, however, for it seemed that although he assured her she had done nothing wrong, he eschewed her invitation to stay with her that night. 

As the days passed, Edith grew more convinced that the place lay in the grip of some kind of malevolent spirit. Even the little mongrel stray, which Thomas allowed her to take in, seemed to sense the hidden presence that Edith felt sure was lurking, always, watching her. She told Thomas her concerns, the creeping sensations of being menaced by some uncanny entity. He laughed off her perceptions as the overabundant imagination of a Gothic authoress. "All that lives in this house are shadows and creaks and groans," he insisted.

Worse yet were the spells of indisposition that plagued her since arriving. Some days she felt fine, while others, pains would come over her inexplicably. She wanted to blame Lucille's cooking, but nothing affected Lucille or Thomas adversely. Perhaps they were simply used to Lucille's recipes. It made things inconvenient, but not intolerable. Much worse was that things with Lucille continued tense and uncomfortable. Edith forged ahead as best she could, taking advantage of her good days to rearrange the library to her satisfaction. At least it was something she could do on her own. Well--mostly on her own. She needed Finlay's help to shift the heavier writing desk from the gloomy office into the well-lit alcove of the library, and then to return the smaller, daintier secretary into the dark, cave-like study. 

"Ar, 'tis good ter see'e making the place a home, it is, ma'am," Finlay commented freely, as they moved the oak monstrosity together. "None o'the other'n could see their way 'round Miss Lucille, n'that's a fact, ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so."

"Which others?" Edith asked in confusion.

Though the caretaker was old and somewhat addled, practically to the point of incoherent, Edith managed to extract the story out of him. So, she was not the first Mrs. Sharpe. Well, that was shocking but the more she thought about it, the less surprised she told herself she should have been. She'd already deduced the Sharpes were in dire need, when they came to Buffalo. Thomas himself had confessed how desperate their circumstances were. That an aristocrat would attempt to marry for money was hardly unique.

"And what of the last Mrs Sharpe, Finlay?" she asked, wondering whether Lucille was anywhere nearby. She could not bear a confrontation, for Lucille would surely accuse her of prying. As if a wife could "pry" into her husband's past!

"Oh, she done took ill, I recall," he related. "What with the baby dying, an' all."

A baby! Edith felt a pang of jealousy. Thomas had not only wed previously but had a child by that wife, and here she was, weeks into their marriage and still a virgin. But as she considered the sad tale, it all became painfully clear to her. Of course. How tragic! Thomas was a sensitive, compassionate gentleman. Obviously, the loss of his wife and infant, whom he must have loved dearly, must still haunt him--so much that he could not bear to make love to her, despite his open affection. Well. Edith could do something to assuage him, she was sure.

She let the old fellow go back to his other duties, the desk forgotten. A plan formed in her mind. She would ask Thomas to take her to town, so she could shop for fresh meat and veg. Then she would cook him a special meal. Afterward, she would tell him she knew his secret heartache, and that she understood. That he had not told her mattered not. She forgave his silence on the subject, in appreciation of how it must distress him to think on it. And she would press him to lay the ghosts of the past to rest in her arms.

As she headed to the stairs to find him, she heard the lift operating. The cage rose, revealing Lucille with a tea tray.

"Oh, Lucille," Edith said excitedly, not even waiting for the cage to halt at floor level. "Thank you, how thoughtful, but I've no time for tea. I want to speak to Thomas. Is he upstairs, do you know?"

Lucille regarded her as if Edith were the mess the papillon had made outside. "He is. But I can fetch him. You should sit in your library as take your tea. You look pale, my dear. You need something warm to fortify you."

"No, thank you, that's all right," Edith refused, breathless with the possibilities she imagined from her discovery. Now that she thought of it, the times she had felt ill or tired, it was always shortly after some of Lucille's tea. It affected her tummy poorly. On the days Edith made the tea, she had no troubles. She had yet to call anyone's attention to it, given how prickly Lucille could be, but she assumed it might have to do with how strong Lucille's tea was, compared to her own brew. "Why not let's go upstairs together. We can all have tea in Thomas's workshop."

"If you wish," Lucille murmured. She stepped back into the lift, inviting Edith to enter. Then she handed off the tray to close the gate and pressed the control with her thumb. When they arrived at the top floor, she took the tray back, but then clicked her tongue in disappointment.

"This tea's gone cold," she announced. "You go on in; I'll make us a fresh pot."

"I thought we could go into town tomorrow," Edith told Thomas after Lucille had gone. His little toy workshop was so cosy and pleasant, especially with the crackling fire, that Edith loved to visit. It was no surprise he spent so much time there. When he was not overseeing his clay mining device, he could usually be found tinkering. He'd told her he used to make toys to amuse himself and Lucille; now she wondered if he had made them anticipating a child, as well. 

"That's a splendid idea," Thomas agreed. "I need to take some of the parts back to send to Birmingham for modifications, anyway. I can bring my new specifications and ship them off."

"Yes, and I want to get some special supplies, for a meal for us. A celebration."

"Of what?"

"Of...our one-month anniversary," Edith said quickly, concealing her real objective. She lifted her face to his, and he bent down to kiss her chastely. 

"How is the book coming along?" he asked, taking a seat by her side. "Has Cavendish declared his love? And your heroine, has she deduced the murderer's identity?"

"Not yet, but I feel certain she will come to a revelation soon," Edith intimated.

"Well, you must allow me to read the next chapter, as soon as it's ready," Thomas said encouragingly.

They chatted happily about her book plot and his plans until Lucille returned with a fresh pot of tea. Even her mood seemed improved in the comfortable surroundings. They told Edith some rare amusing anecdotes of their time in the nursery, which she gathered had been rather lonely and bleak, apart from each other's company. In fact, Lucille's face was touched by more than one genuine smile as they conversed, until Thomas told her of Edith's proposal to go to town. Then, the wall of aloof disdain came up into Lucille's hooded eyes as steadily as the lift traveled between floors of the house.

"Why, that sounds charming," she said, focusing on Thomas rather than Edith. "If you don't mind, I shall send a grocery list. We could use more supplies before the weather closes in."

"Yes, it's true we're racing the snow storms," Thomas explained to Edith. "Then you'll find out why they call this Crimson Peak."

Edith blinked. "What did you say?"

"That's what they call it," Thomas said. "The ore and the red clay leach up from the ground and stain the snow. It turns bright red, so, 'Crimson Peak.'"

"Oh, I see," she said. Despite the warmth of the room, she shivered. She recalled with unease the apparition she had seen in her room in Buffalo, the warning the spirit had imparted to her. But she smiled, nonetheless, and tried to recapture the enjoyment she had felt moments ago.

That night, she saw the ghost with her own eyes. Terrifyingly, it raised itself out of the tub in the bathroom, and dragged itself toward her, awash in red clay and, she knew, blood. The mattock in the ghost's hand pierced the wooden flooring in places as it struggled to close in on her. She shut the bedroom door, wishing Thomas were there. But she felt foolish calling for help, so instead she stood there, back against the portal, until her breathing returned to normal and the feeling of menace passed. When she cracked the door open again, the corridor was empty. Nothing else disturbed her that night, and the next day, they made their way to town.

Perhaps it all worked out for the best, for their trip resulted in being stranded by a sudden snow squall. Thomas took advantage of the room at the tavern, and Edith finally knew the sweet ecstacy that should envelop husband and wife.

Later, as they lay together in a bed that crinkled with hay in its ticking, Edith judged it the right time to confront Thomas with what she knew.

"I hope you aren't cross," she began, "but when I was moving the desk with Finlay, he compared me to...to your first wife."

Thomas gasped next to her, his arm freezing in the middle of stroking her bare arm. "He...mentioned Pamela?" he stammered.

"He didn't say her name," Edith admitted. "Only that you'd been married before." She lifted herself onto one elbow so she could look Thomas in the eye. "He said there'd been a baby. Thomas, I'm so sorry. You could have told me."

Thomas's eyes darted about the darkened room; she could see how wide and white they were as they absorbed the implications of her revelation. "I...it's not exactly the sort of thing one tells a beautiful girl when one is courting her affections," he said gallantly.

"No. But you ought to have known that I am not a typical light-headed damsel. Thomas, I knew you had fallen on hard times. It makes sense you would have already married for money." She did not tell him she knew it had been more than once, however. She hoped he would do that on his own.

He grinned. "You are so much more sensible than the typical damsel, Edith my darling," he said with pride. "I am sorry I was not honest with you."

She waited for a further confession, but it did not come. Really, she told herself, what did she expect? She sighed. "Well. I'll admit I was a bit shocked at first," she said. "But once I gave it a moment's consideration, I realized, you must have been nursing your own pain."

"Pain?" he repeated, clearly perplexed.

"At losing someone you loved, and your baby as well," Edith clarified.

"Oh. Yes. Quite." He leaned up to capture her lips. "I am so glad you can find it in your heart to understand what it was like. Trust an author to put herself in another's place."

"Of course," Edith assured him. "But I want you to know how grateful I am for you. You see, I don't know how I could have survived Papa's death without you. I hope that you'll find solace, and new happiness, and joy, with me." She pressed herself down over his chest, placing her mouth close to his ear. "Please let me help you bury the ghosts of your past?"

She felt him smile. Then he gathered her up in his arms, sitting up to pull her into his lap. Without words, he complied with her request.

* * *

She should have known there was more to it than she'd supposed. A few days later, she discovered Enola's trunk, and Pamela's phonograph, and Margaret's photo, and confirmed that he'd been married multiple times in apparently quick succession. But what broke her heart was when she learned the true depth of Thomas's deception. 

After they returned from town, Edith could not fail to note Lucille's anger and jealousy. Edith gave her a wide berth, but put her foot down about doing all the cooking. The next day, however, Lucille made her tea. Edith thanked her when Lucille brought it to the library, where she was writing. She took one sip in Lucille's view and smiled toothily. As soon as Lucille left her with the pot, however, she found a potted plant and poured out the rest. Then, at luncheon, she said, "I'm not in the mood for tea this afternoon. Have we any chocolate?" 

"I'm afraid not," Lucille answered. "We didn't think to get any, and now the mountain is snowed in. It's tea or nothing, I think."

"In America, we sometimes have only hot water with lemon as a balm against the cold," Edith suggested. "I think I shall have that. Just plain water with lemon."

"If you wish," Lucille told her. But the water was dreadfully bitter, tasting of almonds. Edith poured that into the plant, as well. She felt much better, but the leaves of the plant looked a tiny bit brown compared to morning. She made a note to find other places to dump the tea, certain now that it was poisoned.

She wrote a letter to Alan, telling him her suspicions and asking him to come to Allerdale Hall with all speed. If anything happened to her, she could trust he would see to it that Lucille was questioned, at least. But the snow was piling up outside, and it could be some time before Alan could make it to the house, even if he took sail for England immediately upon receiving her missive. She could not remain all winter with a woman who was trying to kill her. She had to speak to Thomas about it. But she dreaded bringing up the subject. He was so loyal to his sister, Edith doubted he would believe her, even if she had evidence. 

So she needed evidence. Since taking possession of the chatelaine, she had been periodically testing the keys in available locks. One of them, she discovered, unlocked a cupboard near the bathroom that contained medicine bottles. She took one and emptied it, rinsing it thoroughly. She planned to accept Lucille's tea, but then pour off some into the medicine bottle, and demand that Thomas taste it for its bitter tang. He could tell her whether he recognized it as Lucille's regular blend, or if it tasted strange to him as well. But as she was placing the bottle in her pocket, she dropped the chatelaine. It landed with an elaborate key showing, engraved with the word, "Enola." She had wondered what it opened, because nothing else in the house seemed to come from such a locksmith. She'd been looking for days, but found nothing the key would fit.

That day, as she returned to the library from the bathroom, she heard the little dog whining pitifully. The sound was muffled, and following it, Edith found that it was emanating from another cupboard. She turned the knob. The dog leapt into her arms. "Well, what were you doing in there?" she asked, placing the dog on the floor. She turned back to close the cupboard and saw that inside, on the shelf, was a little suitcase of wax cylinders for a phonograph. 

It wasn't long after listening to the cylinders that she found the other papers, and Enola's trunk down in the cellars. With rising nausea, she realized that Thomas's marriages had all been too brief, and they had all ended in the wives' death. Had Lucille poisoned them all? And which one had died in childbirth? Did she die because she had been poisoned during her confinement? What did Thomas know of the poison? How long until Lucille realized Edith had learned the truth? She had to escape. But should she make her break with Thomas, or without him?

She prepared carefully. If he should balk, she had to be prepared to run on her own. It wasn't particularly wise, with the winter penning them in, but she stood no chance if Lucille and Thomas had been equal partners in the crimes. She found herself wishing that Thomas was innocent in everything. In her fantasy, he would be as horrified as she at the news that his fateful marriages had all ended in not accidental death or natural causes, but murder. Although she knew he was devoted to Lucille, sometimes scarily so, she prayed that he would see how he had been tricked by her. She would stress that Lucille was sick, not evil, and that she needed help. Perhaps together they could restrain Lucille until the roads cleared and they could take her to an asylum. Edith's inheritance could tidily care for Lucille in relative comfort in a home for disturbed individuals. 

She felt certain Thomas would not want to leave. His machine showed every promise, had even worked for several hours with the modifications he had made. He could not abandon their one hope of reversing the luck and restoring the family to fortune. But whether or not he wished to evacuate, the fact remained that something had to be done about Lucille.

"Thomas, I was hoping you could come to the library today," Edith told him at breakfast the next morning. "My latest chapter. You said you wanted to read it."

"Hm?" he looked up from his kippers. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. After luncheon, if that's all right, my dear? I had a thought about the conveyor on the automatic crane. I need to sketch it before it flies out of my head. I'm sure you understand."

"Oh. Yes," Edith said, disappointed. The later they had their conversation, the harder it would be to leave if necessary. 

As the light through the window shifted and the shadows lengthened, Edith grew more anxious to see Thomas. She had not written more than a sentence in the last hour; giving up on the pretense of waiting, she left the library in search of him. She was halfway to the attic when she heard him and Lucille, quarreling. She froze so she could listen.

Lucille's voice reached her first, hissing and cross: "--soon will she sign those papers?"

Thomas's reply was softer and more mild: "Lucille, she's still in mourning. I don't want to press her. And with the snow this bad, we couldn't send the documents back anyw--"

"We can send the documents anytime, so long as they are _signed_. That signature is all that is keeping this charade alive. It's all that stands between us, as well."

"Lucille, please don't," Thomas implored.

"Don't? Don't what, Thomas?" Lucille mocked. "Don't remind you of your promise? Don't claim what is rightfully mine?"

"Don't be so quick to dismiss Edith. You're--frightening me, my darling. You've no cause to be so out of sorts. You've not been so intractable since En--"

"Don't you dare say that name to me. _She_ would have stolen you away, if I hadn't stopped her, and so would your precious Edith, if I let her."

"Lucille." Thomas' voice turned harder. "I promise, I will never desert you. Always together--"

"Never apart," they both said together.

Thomas continued: "I remember. I'm not abandoning you. But--"

"But you prefer her to me. Her...mealy sweetness. Is that it?"

"No! It's--not the same," Thomas whined. "Please try to understand. Edith is...vibrant and lively. She's clever. She's special."

Lucille growled. "I knew it was a mistake to let you have her. We should have stuck to the original plan. You would not have thought twice about that other slut, but now that you've had a taste, you're panting for more. You're tired of me, that's what it is. Am I too old? Too jaded? Too ugly?"

"Nothing of the kind," Thomas protested impatiently. Edith heard a sound like the rustling of fabric, crinolines and heavy silk skirts, followed by a curiously wet sort of noise. It reminded her of the caresses she and Thomas had exchanged in the bedroom in town. Were he and Lucille not brother and sister, Edith could have sworn it sounded just like the smacking of lips in an ardent kiss.

But that was impossible, of course--unless they were not in fact the siblings they claimed to be? She had no time to consider it, because a moment later, she heard Lucille break away with jealousy palpable in her cry. "NO! Let me go! You're lying to me! You're just trying to trick me so I'll give you your way. Just like when you were little--"

"Lucille, I swear! Just...just _try_ to get on with Edith, at least for a little while. Through the winter. You might grow to...appreciate her, become friends." Edith could hear his little boy's smile. "You might even find you love her as I--"

The next sound Edith heard was unmistakably a slap. It was a hard, open-handed strike, followed by grunts as in some kind of struggle. She clamped her hand over her own mouth to keep silent.

"So you admit it!" Lucille growled venomously.

"All right! I admit it. I've been trying to tell you--"

"Have you slept with her again since that night?"

"I--No," Thomas sighed. "No, of course not."

"Do you leave my bed and put your cock in her? Or do you dare to spill in her before you come crawling to me?"

"Lucille! No! You know I haven't. There's only ever been you, Lucille. I swear. But--"

"But you want to fuck her again."

"Don't be vulgar."

"You do, don't you. You want to stick it in her quim."

"Lucille, please calm down."

Edith had heard more than enough. She backed carefully down the stairs, wanting to scream, to wail, to rush in on them and expose them for their depravity and deception. But she was all too aware that they might well harm her if they knew she had caught them in their passion. So Lucille "Sharpe" was not his sister, as they had alleged. She was some kind of mistress. And because she was as penniless as Thomas, he had willfully lied to Edith about Lucille's identity, to secure her fortune. That had to be what Lucille meant by signing the papers--they wanted her to sign over her inheritance. No doubt that was why Lucille had been dosing her with poison ever since her arrival. Thomas had used her cruelly, and Lucille meant to kill her when he was done. As much as she cared for him, and even believed in the merits of his invention, Edith knew she had to leave at once, and without him. She could not stay for another moment.

But as she descended to her room, as quietly but as quickly as possible, to retrieve the overnight case she had packed and hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe, two events conspired against her escape. The first was strange and fantastic. An apparition materialized before her in the middle of the staircase. It floated freely in the empty space around which the banisters stood, directly under the open roof, where the snow came down in a column lit slightly pink from the sunset. Her form was translucent, in a long white gown, her face framed by long curls which cascaded well past her shoulders. She fixed her ghostly eyes on Edith and smiled shyly. Edith stood there, intrigued by the vision, for this presence felt entirely unlike the red, bloody threat from the bathroom days before. The spirit drifted toward her, arms opening, and Edith did not recoil when the ethereal woman pressed icy lips against hers.

The second circumstance followed immediately, and it was wholly mundane: Someone banged loudly against the front door. The noise broke the spell cast by the spirit's kiss, startling Edith nearly enough to jump out of her skin. She placed the source of the noise even as the ghostly figure faded away, and she flew down the stairs toward the visitor, lest Thomas and Lucille find her halfway between the floors, and deduce that she had been eavesdropping.

She heaved the heavy oak door open. "Alan!" she cried. She began to weep at the sight of him. He was the very person she wanted most to be there at that moment, and by some miracle, here he was. "However did you get here in this storm? Please, please come in from the wind and the cold." She pulled him inside and into her embrace. "I am so glad to see you!" she told him through tears. She clung to his coat even though it was wet with snow. "I'd only just written a letter to you today--you must have flown here on angel's wings." She forced herself to let go of him, so that she could shut the door.

"It's hardly warmer in here than out there," Alan observed, peering up to the hole in the roof and the snow drifting steadily down to pile up in the foyer. "But it's out of the wind, at least. Edith, I had to come right away when I learned--" he broke off, looking over her shoulder. "Lord Sharpe," he said formally. He gave only the slightest bow to greet him.

"Dr McMichael!" Thomas said, with somewhat forced cheer, joining them between stairs and doorway. "This is an unexpected meeting. Edith didn't say she'd already invited visitors from America." He held out his hand to shake Alan's.

"Oh, didn't she?" Alan replied innocently, with a cautionary glance at Edith to play along. "I'm sorry that I arrive unannounced, Lord Sharpe. But I did come a rather long way to make sure our Edith is well-settled and happy." He looked around the foyer conspicuously, as if to cast doubt on the house's suitability.

"Very happily settled, I should hope," Thomas said with a touch of competitiveness. "You needn't look so judgmental, dear doctor. The house looks like a ruin, but that's only because it's slowly sinking into the clay. Come spring, we'll be able to start on proper repairs."

"Alan, why ever did you risk life and limb to climb that pass in all this snow?" Edith scolded. "You must be frozen to the bone. Come upstairs and I'll draw you a bath." She glanced behind him at the entrance. "You've no luggage?"

"It's at the tavern in town," he explained. "I couldn't wait. I know you'll say I'm ridiculous and prone to fancy, but I had the most awful sense of foreboding, as if I might be too late to catch you if I'd waited for the storm to end." He smiled at her, gripping her hand tightly as she took his arm.

"Why, Lucille," Thomas called to the fourth member of the party, just coming down the stairs, "come and greet our guest. Dr McMichael, you remember my sister, Lucille Sharpe."

"Indeed, Miss Sharpe," Alan said. But he did not hold out his hand to kiss hers, for Edith could not suppress a shudder when Thomas called Lucille his "sister." "Edith, my dear, you're shivering," Alan said with concern. Then, to Thomas, he continued, "And you are injured, sir."

"What?" Thomas asked, brow furrowed.

"Your face," Alan pointed out. For even in the dim lamplight, a red welt and some bright scratches were visible on Thomas's cheek.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "That. Yes, so stupid of me. I was tinkering in my workshop just now and I jumped out of my skin when I heard the knock. The toy I was holding slipped out of my hands and burst all to pieces. Splinters everywhere. It must have got my face." He chuckled halfheartedly, touching his cheekbone with his fingertips. "I'd quite forgot. It's nothing."

"If you're sure," Alan pressed. "It looks nasty, and that's a professional opinion. You didn't get any splinters near your eye?"

"No, I shouldn't think so," Thomas assured him.

"Luggage or no," Edith broke in pointedly, "you must be tired and cold." She drew Alan back close to her. "Let me show you to a guest room."

"That won't be necessary," Lucille said, speaking for the first time from her perch above them all on the stairs. "Thomas. A word."

Thomas winced and turned toward her. "Yes, of course, dear sister." He took the few steps up to meet her and they whispered to each other.

Edith turned to Alan to do some whispering of her own. "She's not his sister, Alan. Take me away. Right now."

"What do you mean not his--Edith, that's why I came, to take you away from this house." He pulled her toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Lucille snapped at them. "You can't be thinking of going outside in this weather." She came down the remaining stairs, dragging Thomas with her. He looked like a naughty child who'd been caught in some innocent transgression, rather than the adulterer (and murderer?) that he was.

"No, I was just...Dr McMichael's bags are on the step," Edith stammered. 

"You just said your luggage was in town!" Lucille accused. "Enough of this! Thomas, if you're not man enough, I'll do it. It's time we get rid of these intruders!" With that, she lunged at Alan with a penknife she'd been hiding in the folds of her skirt. Alan dodged with lightning speed, grabbing her wrist and twisting to push her away.

Edith backed out of the melee and looked for something to use to subdue Lucille. She seized on the first thing to hand, a heavy boot scraper by the door. She lifted it high overhead with the intention of slamming it down onto Lucille's back, or skull, or anything she could manage to reach. But she missed and the iron bar clanged off the slate floor instead. She hissed in pain from the jarring sensation of the impact.

Lucille shrieked and attacked Alan again. This time, Thomas leapt in her path. "Lucille! Stop! You're not well. You've gone quite mad, please--"

"Don't call me mad!" Lucille screamed. "Don't _ever_ call me that! You know what happened to me in that awful place!" She grew incoherent with rage, howling wordlessly as she slashed at them with the knife.

"Help me," Thomas said to Alan, who clasped his hands around Lucille's waist, pinning her arms to her sides. Still she bent her wrist at seemingly impossible angles, trying to cut at Alan's sleeve. Thomas closed on her, hands out. She cut him, but the moment she drew blood, she dissolved into a wail of despair. 

"Noooo!" she cried, going limp in Alan's arms. "My Thomas! What have you made me do! No!" Instead of murderous, she turned frantic. "My poor one, no, I've hurt you--"

"It's all right," Thomas said to her soothingly. She sank to her knees, blubbering, while Alan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and quickly bound up Thomas's wound. 

"It doesn't look deep, but I'll make sure in a bit. That should hold it for now. Help me restrain your sister."

"She's not his sister!" Edith spat.

"She is," both Alan and Thomas said together.

"Please, Edith. Let me explain," Thomas requested.

"You'll get your say after we've made sure she can't hurt anyone else," Alan declared. 

Edith ran for the dining room. She pulled one of the heavy curtain cords from the velvet hangings that covered its drafty, ceiling-high windows, and brought it back out to the foyer. When Alan and Thomas had tied Lucille's hands, Edith reached out for Lucille's key to the drawing room. "Let's go in there," she suggested.

As always, there was a fire in Lucille's private domain. It was banked, but Edith fed it more coal and it quickly roared back into life. The flickering light cast eerie shadows over Lucille's baby grand piano, and made the imposing portrait of the Sharpes' mother seem almost to move. 

They marched Lucille into the room, Alan and Thomas on either side of her, and sat her down at the piano. She submitted meekly, still bereft over having slashed Thomas's hand. "Shh, it's all right, Lucille, I'm here," he told her, planting a kiss in her hair. "It's going to be all right."

He turned to Edith with a sad smile. "I gather, Dr McMichael, that you know our sad history. Would you allow me to tell Edith in my own words?"

"Provided they're the truth," Alan said warily.

Thomas nodded, and began.

* * *

More than once while he spoke, Edith felt the need for a fortifying drink--and she did not mean tea. She wondered if there was even a drop of sherry in the house, or possibly anything stronger. She listened, growing more and more astonished, glad for Alan's steadying hands around her shoulders. 

Her first reaction, of course, was shock. But as Thomas told them of their tragic childhood, of the monsters that had been the Sharpe parents, of their loneliness and reliance on each other, she grew more and more sympathetic. And then, he explained about Lucille's first act of violence against their mother, how she had gone to a sanitarium to protect him, how the experience had left her scarred and forever altered. With tears in his eyes, he told of how his life had become a constant struggle to keep Lucille's worst fears at bay, to prevent her from flying into jealous rages, and most importantly, to protect her, in gratitude for all the times she had protected him.

He was deathly afraid of her. But he loved her intensely, as well. 

When he got to the part about finding out that Lucille was expecting, Edith was caught up in the drama. She could imagine their desperation to conceal the child's parentage from the eyes of the world. She actually believed Thomas when he said he thought he had found the perfect solution. Enola Sciotti, a rich Italian, had been willing to midwife for Lucille and claim that the babe was her own. But he had been stillborn, and Lucille's grief and guilt had torn her apart. Thomas claimed he'd been powerless to stop Lucille from claiming Enola's life in vengeance.

"I've sacrificed everything for my sister," he told them, gesturing to the woman who, even now, was locked in her own private prison of muttering and, as Alan called it, dissociation. "And then, Edith, I met you. I am sorry to have deceived you, but please believe me, my attraction to you was--is--genuine. I understand, of course, that I can in no way make up for the harm, the hurt I have caused you. But I must beg you to accept my apologies, and ask you not to report Lucille to the authorities. They would put her away again. I couldn't bear it." He sighed. "Dr McMichael, please, as soon as the storm breaks, you must take Edith home. I'll apply for an annulment, if you will please consent to keep what you've learned a secret."

Alan began to assure Thomas that an annulment was the least Thomas could offer. "You're lucky Edith doesn't sue you for every worthless inch of this shambles of a mansion--"

"We can't get an annulment," Edith said dully.

"What?"

"We can't get an annulment," she repeated. "Thomas. You know we can't."

Alan scoffed. "Do you mean to tell me--"

"Yes," Edith said. "And it was the best night of my life." She lifted her face to Alan's. "I wrote to you, to tell you that I was sure Lucille was trying to poison me. I'd found out about Pamela, Margaret, and Enola, you see." She looked at Thomas. "I've known about them for a while. I was going to talk to you about them, today, but you never came to see me. And I knew that you'd lost a child. I just--thought it was your wife's. Not Lucille's."

"Lucille was right; I should not have fallen in love with such a clever young woman," Thomas said, proud despite her damning words.

"Be that as it may," Alan said forcefully, "there's no question that this charade is at an end. Edith, you've got every grounds imaginable to sue him for divorce." He glowered at Thomas. "You both deserve to rot for what you've done."

"Oh, Alan," Edith said softly. "Of course they don't. Don't you think they've suffered enough? We've all suffered enough."

"What are you saying?" Alan gasped.

"I...don't know. I need to think." She took Alan's hand. "Earlier tonight, I was ready to run into that storm with you to get away from here. But now that I know the whole truth--"

"How can you not be horrified by these two?" Alan insisted. "They're unnatural--"

"They were desperate, and alone," Edith said. "Thomas...I love you. I do. But you do see that Lucille's unwell, don't you?"

"I…." Thomas looked over to his sister. Lucille caught his eye. She seemed to know where she was momentarily, but then her eyes glazed over. She smiled at him.

"Thomas, help me. I seem to be caught in something. Help free my arms? Mother's punishing me again."

"Dear Lucille," Thomas said, kneeling in front of her. "Yes, I'll take care of you. You just sit quietly, for a little while longer, and then I'll take you to your room. All right?"

"All right," Lucille said sweetly.

"Yes, she's unwell," Thomas admitted. "I can't leave her, Edith."

"You can't control her, either," she countered. "She belongs in gaol, or an institution. But--to turn her in would put you in the docks, too, wouldn't it. And I can't do that, not after all you've been through. My head is spinning." As proof, she lowered her forehead into her hands, then, sighing, she straightened. "We can't do anything until the snow breaks, in any event. Alan, you're stuck with us for the time being. I propose we put Lucille in one of the guest rooms, which we can lock, and keep her there until we can think of a solution."

"Edith, this is ridiculous! You can't seriously be considering--" Alan sputtered.

"Edith, bless you. You're more than I deserve," Thomas was saying.

"Both of you, stop." Edith said. She had no idea what would be the right thing to do.

Alan stood. "No, I will not. This is patently depraved. Edith, I will not stand here and allow you to fall into ill morality and...and lawlessness." He jabbed a finger toward Lucille. "She ought to be hanged, and as for you," he continued, turning on Thomas, "you are a--"

Whatever Thomas was, they never quite found out. For at that moment, Lucille launched off the piano bench, having silently worked free of her bonds. She fell upon Alan, tackling him to the floor. Thomas pulled her off, but even as he did, a spot of red blossomed on Alan's shirt. Edith saw that Lucille had a sharpened metal cylinder in her hand, like an ice-pick. She must have kept it behind the music stand on the piano.

Edith leapt toward Alan, pressing her fingers into the growing blot of blood. He gasped in pain, clutched his chest, and sat up. "Help me to stand," he ordered. Edith pulled his hand, giving him leverage to rise, but falling onto the sofa in the process.

"To the mines, go!" Thomas shouted at them. He was wrestling with Lucille. Edith nodded, and grabbing Alan's hand, dragged him out of the drawing room to the lift. She pulled him into the cage with her, closed it, and pressed the button to go down.

She had only been down here once, when she was searching the place and found Enola's trunk. The clay pits bubbled like vats of red velvet. Even though it was chilly down here, the clay was soft. Warm gasses competed with the open shaft, where Thomas's automatic mining machine extended into the bowels of the earth. Edith led Alan into the apertures and helped him to sit against one of the vats. 

"Stay here," she told him. As she turned to go back upstairs, she tripped over something on the ground. It was a piece of cloth folded over a thin sheet of metal. She lifted the metal: it had a handle, a sharpened edge, and a wicked-looking point on one end. It was rusted, but still looked evil and dangerous. She brought it upstairs with her.

"Thomas!" she called, holding the mattock out two-handed, like a samurai would his sword. "Thomas?"

"He's here," Lucille answered. Edith turned; Lucille held the slim ice-pick to her brother's throat. Her other hand held his cut one, twisted behind his back. He was wincing from the pain, as if Lucille was pressing the wound to keep him from struggling.

"You don't want to hurt him, Lucille," Edith said. She complimented herself on sounding more confident and steady than she felt. "Lucille. Remember, you cut his hand. Remember how you felt? You don't want to hurt your Thomas."

"No, but if I can't have him, then neither can you," Lucille snarled. 

"Lucille, please, listen to me," Edith tried.

"You've found my souvenir," Lucille told her. "Mother's blood is still on the blade. I killed her and I'll kill you too, you bitch."

"If you kill me, Thomas will leave you," Edith threatened. "Let him go, and let's talk. I have an idea. I think it will work for all of us."

"You being dead will work for us, quite well," Lucille countered.

"No, it won't. I haven't signed over the money, remember? And I never will, unless you listen to me."

Lucille's eyes burned with an inner fire. For a moment, she seemed about to toss Thomas out of her way, or stab him in the neck, or something similar, and fly at Edith. But then, to Edith's astonishment, the white lady appeared in the shaft of snow again. Lucille screamed. A moment later, the floor seemed to open, and the skeletal red apparition crawled out of the tile, straight into Lucille's path. She shrieked again, dropping the pick, and curled in on herself. 

"Thank you," Edith told the two ghosts. "Thank you, for saving us." She touched them on their shoulders, first the red, then the white, and each dissipated. Then she plucked the pick off the floor, and set both it and the mattock far from Lucille.

"Put her in the guest room, and lock her in," she told Thomas. "I'll get Alan."

* * *

Throughout the rest of Christmas season, Edith nursed both Alan and Thomas's wounds, with Alan's direction. She had a long talk with Alan, and a longer one with Thomas, the day after all the excitement. By evening, she had answers from both of them. Thereafter, she fed Lucille twice a day, and the others took their meals with her in the kitchen. By the beginning of February, Lucille improved greatly, now that she was more confident Thomas would not be taken from her. Still, Edith had to establish firm boundaries. Where Enola, she learned, had been partial to female companionship, Edith doubted she could ever think of Lucille in that way.

When the weather broke, a few weeks before Easter, she had Finlay drive her into town. By then, she knew she could trust Alan to see to Lucille, as they had come to an accord with her, and Alan for his part had learned to accept the realities of their odd but satisfactory arrangements. There was no alternative, in any case, as Lucille was only allowed visits from Thomas when she had been particularly compliant. Edith sent two parcels through the post office. One was her order for the family solicitor to take her inheritance and start up a new holding company for the manufacture of Thomas's mining crane. The other was her manuscript.

In April, she packed her trunk. Alan had his bags ready and waiting. Lucille was playing the piano in her drawing room, a mark of how well she had progressed. She even spoke almost affectionately toward Edith, although Edith could not be certain it was genuine, and not a front because Lucille knew she would be alone with her brother for the next two months. "Now, Thomas, remember what we discussed," she told him, as Finlay lugged the heavy steamer trunk down the stairs. "Alan and I will be back before June. By then, I expect your production to be in full swing, and the roof back on the house."

"Yes, dear," Thomas promised.

"Have fun while I'm gone. But not too much fun. Remember, when I get back, you're all mine for the first week. Only then can she borrow you per the rota." She grinned wickedly. "And if she misbehaves when I return, I'll be the one to poison _her_."

Thomas nodded gravely. "Anything you say, Edith, my love."

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought I might get around to Lucille/Edith/Thomas, but not quite. At least they're all alive!
> 
> Apologies for any errors I may have made. I am very familiar with the film but did not have access to it while writing (only the screenplay and my memory). This work is also unbeta'd.
> 
> I would point you to my other Crimson Peak story if you like this fic, but to do so would spoil the author reveal!


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